Days of Ruin: United Offensive
by SkyFighter
Summary: There were always skeptics of the history the Federation put in the textbooks. I was among them, I knew there was more to the war against the humans than everyone said. I now know the grim truth and fight to preserve it, but knowledge comes with a price..
1. Prologue: Infamy

Days of Ruin Update History:

_Update 5/12/2011_—Modified and updated some content in Chapters 1-3. Basic maintenance; improving descriptions, modifying language, adding details. Removed chapter header in Chapter 3 (that Name, Date, location thing at the beginning of each chapter). Removed Authors Notes from ch 2-3.

**A/N: **Hello everybody, welcome to _Days of Ruin: United Offensive_, the parallel sister story to_ Days of Ruin: The Underground_.

Sorry to those who love pokemorphs, but in this story, they-for the most part-play the bad guys. A bit of a change of pace.

Oh yes, before I forget. For the sake of this story, Pokemorphs were NOT created by human scientists or humans mating with pokemon. They are an entirely different species from pokemon and can't breed with them, but they can breed with humans and have offspring called Hybrids, who are a mix between the two parent's DNA and can look anything from exactly like a human to exactly like a Pokemorph. Furthermore, pokemorph moves (eg. Flamethrower) are weaker than their pokemon counterparts.

Anyway, without further ado, here's the Prologue to _Days of Ruin: United Offensive._

* * *

"_**Infamy"**_

_**10/27/2030 – 11:00hrs**_

_**Cpt. Mark Sanderson, Leafeon Pokemorph**_

_**2nd Division, Pokemorph Liberation Army**_

_**Undisclosed location near Mississippi River, central USA.**_

"Hey, Captain," a familiar light-hearted voice asked through his headset as Mark Sanderson closed his journal and tucked it away inside his bullet-proof vest. "What'cha workin' on?"

"Writing a journal, Splash," Mark replied to the Buizel-morph sitting beside him on the bench inside their unit's modified CH-46 Sea Knight helicopter.

The Buizel-morph had earned the nickname back in Artillery Training, for his inability to hit sea-based targets. He would have liked to have been an artillery commander, but because of his poor marks against water targets, he was instead assigned to the 2nd Division and placed in Mark's squad.

"Oh really?" his friend replied with a cooky grin, "How long you been keeping one of those? I've followed your leafy ass all over the damn continent and I've never seen you writing in one!"

"That's because I just started it today! And remember this 'leafy ass' can give you lifetime KP duty if he so chooses." Mark said, giving his friend a playful push.

"Now we wouldn't want that!" the buizel-morph exclaimed. "Then who would this squad have who could woo the ladies back at base?"

Mark and several other squad members in the helicopter opened their mouths to retort with a quip, when their radios abruptly crackled to life.

"Outlaw 2-1," the voice addressed the squad by its call sign, "the ground forces have already made their way into the city, however, they have yet to make contact with enemy forces. Our fighters are all currently engaged with the enemy's air force, so you have been reassigned to support the ground forces from the helicopter's gun turrets until further orders are given. Over."

"Outlaw 2-1 copies all, support ground units until further notice," Mark replied to the Airborne Warning and Control System (AWACS for short) operator in charge of his division.

"Give 'em hell! Ghost Eye, out."

"Alright," Mark said through his com to the rest of his unit, as he tucked his long, leaf-like ears through the notches on his helmet and fastened the straps as he took position at the Sea Knight's starboard MK-19 grenade launcher, "Splash, you take position in the Vulcan cannon beside me; Taylor, Swenson, you take station on the port-side turrets. The rest of you, give the enemy hell with your M4s out the back hatch of this thing!"

The air was tense in the helicopter as the members of Outlaw 2-1 took to their stations and opened the tail hatch. The air over the city was quiet, not a sound to be heard as the morphs steadily continued their slow plod through the suburban housing, drawing ever nearer toward the heart of the city.

The battle-hardened troops inside the Sea Knight kept their heads on a swivel, their eyes peeled for any traces of movement. Then suddenly, an RPG burst through the window of what had appeared to be an empty house, impacting the friendly tank on the ground in front of the helicopter and immediately engulfing it in flames.

"CONTACT!" The occupants of the helicopter shouted in unison, as all hell broke loose on the ground below them.

A second tank in the convoy they were escorting fired its cannon at a house spouting gunfire, Mark feeling the heat of the explosion as the roof came down on top of all who were inside. Splash opened fire with his Vulcan, the angry red tracers carving a path of destruction, as the enemy soldiers took up defensive positions in yards, on rooftops, behind pillars, and parked cars.

Enemy tank regiments began to pour out through the garage doors of houses, their guns blazing and cannons firing as they engaged the advancing morph soldiers. Mark set his sights on a mobile SAM, blowing the anti-aircraft weapon to pieces before it had the chance to fire missiles at their helicopter, before he turned to shoot at a convoy of enemy Humvees and foot soldiers that were rushing to join the chaotic battle in the streets.

Gunfire from the foot soldiers impacted the side of the Sea Knight, tearing holes in the helicopter's thin aluminum skin. The airborne soldiers quickly opened fire on their aggressors, plowing the ground on which their enemy stood with gunfire and grenades. As soldier after soldier emerged from the previously thought empty houses, Mark decided they shouldn't take any chances.

He felt the trigger's familiar 'click' under his five-fingered paw as the grenades began to pour forth from the mouth of his gun, raining destruction upon the wooden houses below. Mark felt slightly guilty for firing on civilian housing without any discretion, as he knew that many homes still contained civilians and destroying them would destroy everyone inside. However, General Lockjaw, the commander of all the morph forces in North America, didn't care if they were civilian or soldier; if they were human, he wanted them dead. Civilians weren't a priority target, but there was no punishment for killing them, and the humans who survived the battle were simply left to die in the bombed out buildings left in the morph forces' wake.

_After all, they deserve it for how they've treated us over the years._

Outlaw 2-1 continued to fire at enemy positions as the fighting continued. The morph ground forces, despite heavy casualties, were managing to advance into the more industrial parts of the city with the help of air support as bombers began to, well, bomb the city. Thick black smoke from burning buildings, crashed fighter jets, destroyed tanks, and gunfire was rising up in large columns as the attack pressed on.

Mark fired a grenade at an MBT as it pulled out of a warehouse, but the reactive armor deflected most of the grenade's blast away as Mark thought it might. Mark, however, didn't count on the tank firing its cannon at the helicopter itself, as such tactics rarely worked. This time however, the tank hit the mark, blasting off the tail rotor and sending the helicopter into a tailspin.

The soldiers of Outlaw 2-1 could only hold on for dear life as the force of the spiral ripped the tail hatch off and several soldiers were slung out of the helicopter.

_This is it!_ Mark thought, clutching onto the turret's mount as the wounded bird spun out of control toward the ground. Mark felt his grip slip off his gun, and the next thing he knew, he saw the Sea Knight spinning away from him as he was thrown out into the open sky, before he blacked out.

Mark slowly opened his eyes and looked around. His vision was blurry, making his surroundings difficult to see.

_Am I in... heaven?_ He asked himself mentally, blinking in attempt to clear his vision. As the objects slowly came into view, it became quite apparent that this wasn't heaven.

He was lying on his back; the remains of what was once a bush of some sort crushed beneath him. A short distance away, the Sea Knight's burning wreckage lay on its side against a steep grassy embankment beside a parking lot for a tool shed for the golf course behind it.

_I got to get over there,_ Mark thought, _I have to know if any of them made it out!_

It seemed that no part of his body didn't hurt when he finally managed to drag himself out of the hedges and get to a sitting position to look himself over. His paws had been badly slashed, the deep cuts crossing his palms, his legs felt badly bruised, thought he may have a broken rib or two. His carbine was nowhere to be found, but he still had his side arm and his knife, so at least he wouldn't be unprotected if none of his comrades survived the wreck.

He struggled to his feet, clutching his head as he did so, before staggering towards the wreckage of what used to be his transport.

"Is anyone still in there? Taylor? Daniels? Splash?" he said as he made his way around to where the tail hatch used to be to peer inside.

"I'm okay," came a raspy response as Mark poked his head inside. "Taylor and Ramirez are too."

There was some shuffling followed by groans of pain, as a bayleef and a houndour morph climbed out, followed by a familiar orange-furred morph.

"Anyone else make it, Splash?" Mark asked, giving them the once over.

"No, they're all dead," Splash sighed as he checked himself over for injuries. Aside from some bad gashes on his shoulders, he didn't look too bad. "God, you look _terrible_ Captain!"

"Maybe because I _feel_ terrible!" Mark retorted, before remembering they were behind enemy lines; he continued, after lowering his voice. "I guess we're all that made it, then. We'll travel as a squad and try to get back to allied lines."

"You'll need a weapon, sir," Private Ramirez stated, the houndour-morph motioning toward the carbine he carried.

"I'll take this one," Mark said as he picked up an M16 off the ground. It wasn't the greatest weapon in existence, but it would do. "I'll just radio AWACS and let them know where we are, and then we'll plot our next move from there."

Mark checked his radio, and was pleased to see it miraculously still worked. He waited for a break in the chatter before beginning his transmission, "Ghost Eye, Outlaw 2-1 here. Our chopper was shot down and we're behind enemy lines. What's the status of the assault and what do you want us to do? Over."

Almost immediately the operator responded, "Copy that, Outlaw 2-1. The paratroopers currently dropping over the center of the city seems to have the enemy tied up at the moment, and we seem to be gaining some ground. Take cover and just sit tight, I'll see about getting a transport to your location. Ghost Eye, out."

There was little need for explanation as the whole squad had heard Ghost Eye.

"Alright, you heard him," Mark said to his three surviving squad-mates. "Let's take cover in the bushes behind the warehouse. I don't want to take any chances out in the open. Follow me."

"Yes, sir!"

**~oo0oo~**

Meanwhile, in a secret underground bunker beneath Washington D.C., a group of high-ranking military officers debated the battle as they watched through satellite feed.

"General Lockjaw! You can't be serious!" a uniform-clad absol-morph shouted, his crimson eyes wide in shock. He bore two stars on his cap, denoting his rank as Major General, and was by far and away the youngest morph present at the meeting at the age of twenty-six. The morph had risen through the ranks fast due to his favor among the troops and brilliant tactics. Furthermore, his troops were the ones spearheading the assault on the enemy stronghold along the Mississippi.

"I'm one hundred percent serious, Commander," The dark, scaly garchomp-morph said flatly, a cold look in his yellow eyes, "Your forces have served me well, but they're all pawns in the greater scheme of things."

"But General," the absol-morph protested, almost pleaded his superior, "Think of their families-"

"'Family' is the last thing on my mind right now," the garchomp-morph General snapped, "The miserable human's mistreatment of us shall be ended! It's high time they get what they deserve!"

"Governor, although I agree the humans need to be punished, General Blyght brings up a valid point," an elderly alakazam-morph said from the far end of the war room table. The morph wore four stars on his cap, General Lockjaw alone out-ranked him, and sported an incredible white mustache. "We're talking about detonating a nuclear weapon in a city where tens of thousands of morphs are fighting! If the public ever learned that we were responsible for it, then there would be a tremendous outcry against our government."

"That's precisely why we'll blame it on the humans General Ka Bar," the dragon grinned, revealing his rows and rows of razor-sharp teeth. "We'll say that the intelligence division made a mistake and the humans really _did_ have a nuke on hand in the city."

The North American Head of Intelligence didn't like that idea.

"Now hold on just a second," the gengar-morph sitting between General Blyght and Ka Bar shouted, rising to his feet, "_My_ division is going to take the blame for this action that will take the lives of thousands? Totally unacceptable!"

"Sit down, Drake!" Ka Bar ordered calmly to the enraged gengar, grabbing him by the arm.

"Don't touch me! _No one _dares blame things unjustly on my division! We've worked too hard to make a name for ourselves as a respectable organization! I'm not going to let you and your _impatience_ ruin that!" Drake roared, slipping free of Ka Bar's grip and striding around the table toward where General Lockjaw sat.

"Sit down, Drake, that's an order!" Lockjaw shouted, rising to his feet.

"NO I WILL NOT SIT DOWN!" Drake shouted, grabbing the supreme commander by the shirt and pinning the garchomp-morph against the wall.

_**BANG!**_

A single gunshot echoed around the room, making everyone jump. Everyone except for Lockjaw, who instead casually sheathed his pistol and watched as his assailant fell to the floor. The said gengar morph convulsed on the ground, then lay still.

The General of the Army just killed the North American Head of Intelligence.

"Now, any _more_ objections, gentlemorphs?" Lockjaw calmly asked, as if the whole confrontation never occurred.

No one dared to say a word...

**~oo0oo~**

"Ghost Eye," Mark shouted into his radio as gunfire cut through the bushes along the side of the golf course his squad had taken cover behind, "What's the status on that helicopter? Over!"

Not long after he and his squad had taken position behind cover, enemy soldiers arrived to the crash site to finish them off. Mark's team had decided to hold their fire in hopes that the soldiers would move on, but they instead had fanned out to search and had discovered their location. Badly outnumbered and low on ammunition, Mark knew his squad wouldn't be able to hold out long against their foes.

Mark quickly fired a Solarbeam into the crowd of soldiers, before ducking behind a tree as bullets raced by. His attack had an effect akin to that of a hand grenade, the blast badly wounding—if not killing—a few soldiers and throwing a couple others to the ground.

Just as he was beginning to suspect that Ghost Eye hadn't heard his call, a voice came through on his radio.

"Outlaw 2-1, we understand you could use some help," a feminine voice said. "This is Thunder 1-5, we can see the crash site from our location. We're your taxi out of here. What's your status?"

Mark slid out from behind cover to exchange fire with the advancing enemy forces. They were now less than eighty meters from Outlaw 2-1's defensive position. Mark hit one of the soldiers in the shoulder as the enemy grunt rushed across the warehouse parking lot for a better offensive position on the leafeon-morph's squad, knocking the soldier to the ground. Mark quickly finished the soldier off with several more rounds to his body.

Mark glanced around at his squad-mates as he slipped back behind the oak tree. An enemy had thrown a grenade into the area Splash was located in, but the agile buizel-morph quickly tossed it back at their advancing foes, killing several of them. Taylor was busy firing shots through the hedges from a prone position, and Ramirez busy letting loose with a scorching hot flamethrower.

Mark took out a red flare and threw it into the parking lot, before finally responding to Thunder 1-5.

"Outlaw 2-1 currently engaged with multiple contacts approaching from the east," he radioed to their helicopter-borne rescuers. "I've popped red smoke in the parking lot! Stand-by to engage on my mark!"

"Roger that, Thunder 1-5 assuming firing position," the pilot replied as the helicopter roared over the treeline.

"Thunder 1-5, cleared hot!" Mark shouted as he and his men all hit the deck.

Immediately the powerful cannons attached to the Sea Knight helicopter known as Thunder 1-5 opened fire on the troops in the lot, the streams of tracers cutting down anything that moved.

Mark's squad anxiously waited as the helicopter drove the enemy forces back, when finally the tail hatch opened and a kirlia-morph appeared from inside, motioning for Mark's team to make a break for the Sea Knight.

"Come on! Come on!" the soldier shouted, an order that was hastily obeyed by Mark's team.

The four soldiers burst out of the bushes and dashed across the concrete lot, dodging enemy gunfire. To Mark, that was one of the longest five seconds of his life, as everything seemed to slow down. Splash made it in first, followed by Taylor and Ramirez, then lastly Mark and the kirlia-morph soldier.

"Thanks for the rescue, guys," the leafeon-morph gasped out to his squad's rescuers as the helicopter trudged back into the sky.

"Don't mention it," the kirlia-morph replied, "Lieutenant Katrina Bowie, at your service."

"Captain Mark Sanderson, 2nd Division."

Mark took a seat on the bench that ran across the port side of the Sea Knight, looking out the open tail hatch at the final resting place of several of the morphs who had been with him mission after mission for the past few years. Some of the soldiers had even been his friends from basic training, morphs whom he had deep bonds with. Now in a single moment of misfortune, they were gone.

A frantic radio transmission snapped the battered soldier back into reality.

"Unidentified ballistic missile inbound!" Ghost Eye shouted, "Radar signature matches that of LGM-30 Minuteman Nuclear missile!"

Terrified glances ricocheted around among those present in the helicopter as various transmissions from ground forces came through the radio all asking the same question: "Where is the missile headed?"

"Stand-by, we're tracking the missile now," Ghost Eye replied, doing his best to stay calm despite the flurry of panicked voices from ground forces screaming up at him in the AWACS high in the sky. "SHIT! It's headed straight for the downtown sector of the combat zone!"

Mark instinctively glanced out the tail hatch toward the downtown skyline. It still looked awfully big from his seat on the bench.

"All units, flow to safe area," Ghost Eye continued, panic rising in his voice, "Fifteen miles from point of deton-"

A blinding white flash engulfed the skyscrapers of downtown, creating a wall of debris as the unquenchable inferno exploded outward at a breathtaking pace. Long before the sound of the blast even reached the helicopter, Mark could make out the gruesome details of the second sun as the rapidly approaching shockwave threw a retreating allied convoy into the sky like a bunch of kits' toys before they too were consumed by the white flash.

Mark couldn't tear his gaze away from the blast as it rapidly approached—then finally overtook their helicopter. First came the shockwave of the blast, the wall disturbed air throwing the helicopter into a spin so violent that the fuselage literally tore into two separate spinning halves as they plummeted to the unforgiving ground below. All Mark could do was hold onto his seat as for the second time that day he watched as soldiers were flung out of the gaping holes on either side of him to their deaths.

_Oh God, help us!_ He prayed, before the helicopter slammed into the ground and everything went black.

His biggest regret: he wouldn't be coming home for his son's ninth birthday...

* * *

**A/N: **Okay, before I get a flurry of people telling me that I made a mistake and ghosts can't be killed with guns, I assure you this is not a mistake. You see, I believe that bullets and knives, as they are metal, most likely belong in the steel-type category. Now I'm not claiming to know everything about pokemon, but I don't seem to recall any ghost pokemon being immune to steel. Therefore, they can be affected by and killed by the like.

Anyway, so it appears that Mark was killed in action in the most action-packed prologue I've ever written. It's okay; he's not the main character anyway. So he's allowed to die. We'll meet the main character next chapter.

Until then, please review.

~Sky


	2. Razing the Bar

Hello. My name is Shiloh Sanderson.

My father was a Leafeon morph who was conscripted into the war against human oppression when I was very young. I never knew my mother—she died from complications with my birth; I instead grew up under the care of my uncle and aunt, an Espeon and Glameow morph couple. War was an abstract idea to me, nothing more than a show on TV. I had always seen it as something that happened in some far away land, without any real connection to the life I myself lived. That is, until that fateful day in October, just before my ninth birthday...

I remember it as if it were just yesterday. It was late that night—long past my bedtime, I had got up to get a drink of water. As I quietly padded through the hallway, I noticed light coming from the den. My aunt and uncle were still up watching television, a rarity since the PLA knocked out much of the world's communications network and only two channels seemed to still work. My curiosity got the best of me, and I crept as quietly as I could toward the archway that led into the den. I quietly peered around the corner and I'll never forget what I saw.

On the TV was a video of an explosion much larger than anything I'd ever seen before. The cloud of smoke resembled a giant, flaming mushroom stretching high into the sky, making everything around it—even the burning buildings surrounding it—look like mere toys. Given my age, I would have probably thought it was cool; but this time, something was different. A news morph was interviewing a black and orange dragon morph dressed in a uniform like my dad wore. I didn't fully understand what the morph was saying, but I understood the gist of it. A lot of morphs had died in something called a "nuclear explosion," and it was all the humans' fault.

I tore my gaze from the television and dared to peak my head around the corner a little farther to see my makeshift parents' reactions. My aunt was sobbing with her face buried deep in her husband's glossy, violet fur. My uncle, meanwhile, was doing his best to comfort his wife, but there was no mistaking the worry in his expression.

"Didn't they say the 2nd Division was among the hardest hit?" my aunt sobbed. "Whatever are we going to tell poor Shiloh if that manila envelope comes in the mail telling us Mark was among those killed?"

"It won't come in the mail," my uncle replied, trying to reassure her, but it was difficult to miss the lack of conviction in his words—even at my age. "If anyone is going to make it, my brother will."

"But what if he doesn't? What will happen to Shiloh? He'll-"

"We'll adopt him if it happens. That's what Mark would want. It'll all turn out okay."

I turned away and raced back to my room with my Eevee ears covered, not wanting to hear more. I suddenly wasn't so thirsty anymore. I dove into my bed and buried myself under my covers wishing desperately that this was somehow just a nightmare and that I'd wake up and my real father would be home, asking if I wanted to go out and play catch or something. But that was not meant to be. Sure enough, that dreaded manila envelope my foster mother mentioned came in the mail a couple weeks later confirming the worst: my father was among those missing and presumed dead after the detonation.

I was devastated. It was as if my whole world had shattered into a million pieces like a glass pane hitting the floor. I never fully recovered from my loss. My aunt and uncle immediately adopted me, and I lived the rest of my kithood as if I was one of their own. I was the oldest child in my (adopted) family, and I did my best to be a good example like any older brother would.

One would have thought that I would have hated the humans for the death of my father, and for a while, I most certainly did. However, my parents always told me to think for myself—ironically, an old human adage—not just accept everything at its face value. By the time of my early teenage years, modern infrastructure in America had been repaired enough from the damage caused by the EMP at the start of the war to return the internet to at least partial service in the cities. I spent much of my time researching the history of the war, and the deeper I dug, the more suspicious I became of it. The textbooks and PLA-controlled media said that the humans were responsible for causing the war and much of its destruction; but the deeper I searched, the less the evidence seemed to support this claim.

We now lock the surviving humans away behind fortified towers and walls in decaying city ruins and camps. We give them barely enough food to survive, force them to live in the most…inhumane conditions, and keep them around for… entertainment. Those shows… those _horrible _shows where the military goes through the humans' camp and selects a pawful of them to fight each other to the death for our species' _entertainment_. They say it's because humans treated us like this since time began and that they're getting what they 'deserve'; but if we're so much better than them like everyone says, why do we treat them like this and perhaps more importantly, why are we okay with it? Anyone with any basic morality should object to how we treat them, yet for some strange reason, nobody does.

I get the feeling that there is more to what is going on here than meets the eye. I feel like I'm missing one big piece of the puzzle, a piece I have yet to find. I would have continued my quest for answers, but by some twist of fate, I ended up getting drafted to be a Marine fighting for a cause that I don't believe in. I don't know where exactly where my life will lead me from here, but I know one thing for certain: I'm going to keep trying to unravel the mystery of the past that no one seems willing to discuss.

**~~oo0oo~~**

"_**Razing the Bar"**_

_**11/16/2039 – 21:41**_

_**Pvt. Shiloh Sanderson, Vaporeon Pokemorph**_

_**1st Battalion, 10th Marine Regiment, Pokemorph Liberation Army (PLA)**_

_**Fort Talon, Colorado Region.**_

"I can't believe you guys talked me into this!" Shiloh Sanderson, a young Vaporeon pokemorph, lamented as his squad-mates pushed him up a hill toward a small pub situated on the outskirts of the small, frontier town of Fort Talon.

"C'mon, everyone goes out partying on their eighteenth birthday," a muscular Breloom morph reassured the nervous Eeveelution morph as he led—or rather pushed—him toward the entrance of the bar. "Have we ever steered you wrong before?"

"Actually..."

"Never mind! Don't answer that."

The group of young Marines noisily made their up the moon-lit stone path toward the small, converted ski lodge that sat alone on a grassy hill overlooking the town below. Even from a good distance away, the cheering and shouting of the morphs the pub contained could easily be heard by the young Vaporeon's sharp ears, further unnerving him.

"Guys, I don't know..." he stammered. "If Colonel White ever finds out, he'll have our necks. And he's not particularly fond of me to begin with."

"Aw, grow a pair, Dogface! You'd never have any fun if we didn't help you along," Lieutenant Kamone, a broad-shouldered Charmeleon morph with spiky blonde hair grunted from the back of the group. "And besides," he continued, "you 'owe' it to us to do this since we helped you evolve!"

"Yeah, thanks for nothing," Shiloh retorted bitterly.

"Now, now Shiloh, why so bitter?" a nasal sounding voice, this time belonging to the Marshstomp morph, Private Fritz Polsky, on the Vaporeon's left, quipped. "We're all friends here, yes? And besides, everyone knows that it's a military tradition that a morph's squad-mates sneak him out to the local bar on the night of his birthday!"

"Yeah, everyone _including_ Colonel White," Shiloh muttered to himself darkly.

"You're just being paranoid, Dogface," Sergeant 'Tarzan' Lanky, the Breloom morph behind him grunted. "White's just an old gasbag anyway. He's full of talk, but lacking in the action department! He'd much rather sit back and pig out from his mini fridge than interfere with us!"

Shiloh sensed the mounting annoyance among his fellow Marines, and decided it best to just shut his muzzle and go along with their plan for now. And he had to admit that he _was_ at least somewhat excited about the element of danger that sneaking off the base to party brought. If the Colonel caught them, they'd be doing Kitchen Patrol for the rest of their lives, but if not, it'd make a helluva story. Not to mention that as of today, he could legally drink, so he supposed that this was a 'rite of passage' sort of thing.

Tarzan Lanky took the lead in the last few steps to the heavy oak double doors of the bar, and paused to point at a sign tacked to the wall beside the door.

_"THOU SHALT NOT LIGHT—NO SMOKING AND ABSOLUTELY NO FIRE-BASED ATTACKS. -Brandon Psy, barkeep."_ the sign read.

"Well, I guess I have nothing to worry about, then," Shiloh grinned.

"Guess not," Tarzan chuckled.

Then, in a swift motion with his hulking hands, the Breloom morph threw the double doors open and proudly strutted inside as the bar's occupants all paused to stare at the newcomers. Shiloh was slightly unnerved by the attention his Breloom buddy drew to their entry, but quickly regained his composure and looked around at rugged faces that were now turning back to resume their various activities.

A Tyranitar and an Aggron morph were busy arm wrestling on a sturdy wooden table, while a pawful of fire-types stood around a billiard table in the back of the room as a Blaziken and a Ninetales dressed in black leather jackets played Eight-ball. A group of fighting-types were seated at the bar, drinking and watching highlights of the pokemorph battling tournament from earlier in the day on the TV mounted on the wall. At the beer tap a short distance from them, a stocky Gallade morph with light brown hair that Shiloh could only deduce to be the barkeep, was busy talking with a stout Grunbull morph whom he presumed was a regular visitor.

Shiloh followed his fellow Marines to a round table off in the corner, taking the seat closest to the window as Tarzan marched straight to the bar to buy the drinks without even asking what to order. _This must be where they sneak off to every weekend, so he must have their orders down pat, _Shiloh thought, as he watched the Breloom stride to the counter and get the Gallade morph bartender's attention.

The pair just stood and talked for the longest time, before Tarzan turned and motioned for the Vaporeon to come to where he was.

"Hi there, kiddo, have a seat," the bartender smiled, motioning for the Vaporeon to sit down at one of the bar stools. "Tarzan here tells me you just turned eighteen."

"Yep, just today, actually."

"Well, happy birthday to ya then," the Gallade congratulated, giving Shiloh a quick slap on the back. "'I'm Brandon, the owner of this here pub. Shiloh, was it?"

"Er, yeah. It's a pleasure to meet you, Brandon." Shiloh replied, subconsciously rubbing the back of his head.

"Feel free to stay as long as you like," the bartender invited good-naturedly. "Just be careful of some of the guys here. They're all good fellas, but catch 'em at a bad moment and I'll be replacing windows and shelves again!" Without waiting for a response, the barkeep continued, "Anyway, since this is yer first time out, I'll be extra careful that I don't make you anything that will leave you totally soused. After all, we don't want ol' Colonel White finding out of yer guys little exploits!"

"Right, thanks, Brandon," Shiloh stammered, before leaving he and Tarzan to continue their conversation.

It wasn't long before a familiar Breloom returned with several varieties of drinks. He handed a glass full of a dark green liquid to Fritz, who eagerly sipped at the strong smelling drink. Lieutenant Kamone accepted a cherry-red cocktail, before Tarzan handed Shiloh a cocktail glass full of a peach colored slush-resembling the texture of a smoothie or something. Instinctively, Shiloh gave it a tentative sniff. The beverage had a light peachy odor, along with the unmistakable scent of some variety of alcohol.

Rather cautiously, Shiloh brought the glass to his muzzle and took a sip. Although there was no mistaking the dryness of the alcohol, the frosty beverage was sweet and remarkably tasty. Shiloh gave the barkeep a nod of approval, before turning his attention back to his comrades to take part in the conversation.

**~oo0oo~**

Shiloh let out a contented sigh as he finished drinking the last drops of his fruity beverage. With the exception of Tarzan, who was just hanging around to give him company, he was the only one still sitting at the table; the others had all gone off to other activities around the converted ski lodge. After thanking Tarzan for the drink, Shiloh wandered off toward the pool table, where the same Ninetales from before was preparing to duel a Machop morph who had been watching the battle tournament highlights earlier.

Shiloh squeezed through the crowd for a better look, finally deciding on a vacant spot next to Fritz in the back corner as the two players placed wagers on the outcome. The game started with a bang, with the Ninetales morph quickly knocking in three of the solid colored balls. The Machop, answered by knocking in a pair of stripes and leaving the Cue ball in such a location that left his opponent with virtually no shot. The game stayed close the rest of the way, with one knocking in a ball and the other answering, until there were only two balls left: the 8-ball and one of the stripes. It was the Machop's turn, he took aim, and with a muffled _thump, _the stripe disappeared into one of the side pockets. All that remained was the Eight. The Machop called his shot for the corner pocket, and with practiced precision, sent the black sphere rolling into the aforementioned pocket for the win.

The crowd, with the exception of the group of jacket-clad fire-types in the back, all applauded. "Someone finally beat Jack, I don't believe it!" a Tauros morph cheered.

"Good game, man," the Machop congratulated, offering to shake paws with the Ninetales, who promptly refused.

"Time to pay up, Jack!" Tarzan shouted from the other side of the table, to roars of approval from everyone else.

"I ain't coughing up anything," the Ninetales replied flatly, rising to his full height.

"What was that, Jack?" Shiloh challenged, pushing through the crowd to face the fire-type in front of the pool table.

"I said, I won't be paying that bastard a damn cent!" Jack countered, the sharp tang of alcohol on his breath stinging the Vaporeon's sensitive nose. "And who's gonna make me? You, mermaid-morph?"

"Damn straight I am," Shiloh said, his deep blue eyes glaring into the taller morph's brown eyes defiantly. "You lost the game, now pay what is due!"

"Jack said he ain't payin', so he ain't payin'," a six-and-a-half foot tall Blaziken morph bellowed, hoisting the much smaller Vaporeon up by his camoflague uniform and slamming him against the wall as both a Magmortar and a Houndour morph, both wearing identical leather jackets, stepped forward to flank him.

_Great going, Shiloh. You should have just stayed out of this one… _Out of the corner of his eye, Shiloh could see his fellow Marines pushing through the crowd to back him up. _Alright, at least I'm not alone on this one._

"Put him down, man," Tarzan warned, cracking his knuckles as he advanced toward the fire-types. "We don't want any trouble tonight."

"You heard him, put me down," Shiloh choked out, trying to regain his composure before one of the goons could pick up on his rising anxiety. Unfortunately, his efforts were in vain.

"You would you look at that?" Jack taunted from behind his goons. "Soldier boy here is nothing but a big chicken! Look at him! He looks about ready to piss himself!"

"This coming from the coward who hides behind a seven foot Blaziken," Shiloh retorted, as he frantically searched for a means of escape.

His eyes finally rested upon a wooden trophy shelf above his head. _Oh God, please let this work, _he thought as he grabbed a hold onto the shelf, brought his legs up and kicked the Blaziken square in the chest.

The force of the blow threw the lanky fire-type off his feet and crashing to the floor, leaving Shiloh dangling from the trophy shelf as both the Magmortar and Houndour morph advanced to restrain him. Just before the two reached him, however, the shelf gave a loud groan, before it pulled out of the wall. Shiloh yelped in surprise as the board came away in his paws and he fell to the floor as various trophies rained down around him upon anyone who was unfortunate enough to be standing nearby; among them, Jack and his goons.

Unfortunately, the diversion didn't last long. Just as Shiloh had managed to shake the stars out of his head and get to his feet, the Blaziken, who had been throttling him against the wall just seconds earlier, kicked the Vaporeon's legs out from under him. Shiloh grunted in pain as he fell back hard on his back and the wind was knocked out of him. But instinct kicking in, he forced himself to his paws despite the undeniable pain in his chest and caught the Blaziken right in the face with a reverse roundhouse kick, sending the lanky Pokemorph stumbling backwards over the pool table.

Shiloh hastily scanned his surroundings, expecting one or more of Jack's buddies to be rushing him. However, he quickly discovered that his squad-mates had come to his aid, and were busy grappling with the unruly fire-types. Shiloh also soon discovered that they weren't the only ones fighting; in fact, it seemed there wasn't a single place in the whole bar that wasn't filled with a writhing mob of morphs fighting each other using whatever they could find!

Shiloh had to duck as a beer stein smashed into the wooden wall and shattered into pieces right where his head had been only a fraction of a second earlier.

"Shiloh, Tarzan, Fritz," Lieutenant Kamone, the only one of his squad-mates who hadn't come to his aid against Jack, shouted above the incredible racket. "We need to get out of here! Forget Jack's gang!"

_With pleasure, _Shiloh thought, picking up the snapped shelf to use as a shield as a potted plant smashed on the pool table just feet from where he stood, pelting him with pieces of shattered pottery.

Everything seemed to slow down as he desperately searched for the easiest route to the door. There was none. Every possible route to the door was filled with the chaos of the bar fight. He'd have to charge right through the middle of the chaos and pray that he didn't get clocked by one of the many airborne objects chis-crossing the airspace inside the converted lodge.

Taking a step back, he crouched down and waited for his chance, the shelf held out in front of him like a shield. _One…_ A Snover picked up a barstool and threw it across the room, then followed up with throwing the contents of a glass in another morph's face. _Two…_ The Blazikan morph from before turned and Blaze Kicked some unfortunate soul into the bar counter. _Three…_ Shiloh drew a breath, the action was beginning to ease up slightly as drunken morphs scrambled to get more ammo to throw. _Just a second more and… NOW!_

Shiloh dug his foot claws into the wooden floor and bolted for the door during a break in the action. Unfortunately for him, the chaos ratcheted back up as quickly as it had died down, and it came back with a vengeance! A Raichu morph drunkenly swung a Thunder Punch at him as he dashed through the mob. Thankfully, the Raichu's drunkenness had lulled the Pokemorph's reflexes and Shiloh side-slipped the attack with little difficulty, only feeling a slight tingling sensation from the close proximity to the attack.

He scrambled several steps further, only for a flying bottle of vodka to smash him in the muzzle, sending him crashing to the floor on his back. Shiloh clutched his nose as blood gushed into his paw and blinked through the tears just in time to make out a massive foot of a Tropius morph descending towards him. He quickly rolled out of the way, but not quick enough, as the massive grass-type's foot came down on the finned tip of his tail.

_God dammit!_ Shiloh swore mentally, clenching his teeth to suppress a yelp of pain as the sensitive nerves of his tail fin were crushed against the oak flooring under a substantial amount of weight.

However, the weight wasn't there for long, as the Tropius drunkenly threw an Energy Ball into the crowd and stumbled backwards over an overturned chair. Shiloh immediately took advantage of his newly-regained freedom, and ignoring the stabbing pain in his literal tail, scampered to his feet and continued a desperate dash for the door.

He narrowly avoided a flying bar stool as he slipped through the chaos along a row of overturned tables. The stool instead sailed over his head and just missed Brandon, who stood in his place beside the beer tap, casually observing the chaos consuming his bar. The airborne seat continued its flight for a couple more feet until it smashed into the racks of liquor lining the wall behind the counter, sending bits of broken glass and assorted varieties of strong-smelling alcohol raining out over the counter.

Adrenaline still coursing through his veins, Shiloh was now only about twenty or thirty feet from the exit and safety. Unfortunately for him, he observed, the door was blocked by a free-for-all between the fighting-type jocks and Jack's pyrotechnic pals.

_No way around it, I'll have to go through it!_

By an amazing stroke of luck, the Tropius from before had angrily picked up the chair that tripped him (or rather he tripped over), and wound up to throw it in frustration, but a Snover morph hit him square in the gut a split second before he threw, causing the chair to sail wildly through the air... Right over Shiloh's head and through the window immediately to his left! It was like an answer to Shiloh's prayers!

Without so much as a second thought, Shiloh dove through the shattered remains of the window to freedom! He landed in a gorse bush hedge, the sharp leaves scratching him even through his uniform and pelt, but he didn't feel it. He was still in fight-or-flight mode, and flight was currently all that was on his mind. He ran full-pelt down the slope, until his forward momentum was faster than he could run and he stumbled forward and tumbled to an undignified halt at the bottom of the hill.

"Dammit," he swore as he bit his tongue.

"Certainly took you long enough," a gruff voice scolded.

"Yeah, nice to see you too, Kamone," Shiloh retorted, getting to his feet; only to be knocked back to the ground by a well-timed punch to the gut by the aforementioned Charmeleon.

"That's _Lieutenant_ Kamone to you, Dogface," the Charmeleon stated flatly to the stunned Vaporeon. "I suggest you remember that you're talking to your superior next time!"

"Yes sir…" Shiloh wheezed, forcing himself to bite back a retort. His adrenaline had rapidly died out, and he was now feeling full effects of the gorse thorns and the blows he'd taken in the bar _and_ from his supposed 'friend'.

"Sorry 'bout that, Shiloh," Tarzan said, as he and Fritz appeared from the shadows, sporting a couple new scratches from their adventure inside. "Y'know how Kamone is-"

"C'mon guys! You too, Dogface! We have to get back to the barracks before Colonel White finds out." Lieutenant Kamone called, already striding down the dimly-lit road back to town.

"You okay?" Fritz asked quietly as he and Tarzan helped Shiloh up to his feet.

"Yeah, I'm fine," the Vaporeon morph finally replied as they reached the sidewalk.

The trio caught up to their fire-type squad leader and continued walking down the road for several moments in an awkward silence. Finally, Shiloh spoke up.

"Hey guys, could I ask you something?" he began, gingerly pulling thorns out of his tail as he walked.

Lieutenant Kamone snorted, but Tarzan nodded for Shiloh to continue.

"When we got into that fight with Whatshisname, why the hell did the whole bar randomly start fighting? And why didn't Brandon seem even remotely fazed?"

"Dunno exactly," Tarzan replied. "Alcohol does funny things to folks. Give 'em enough and even the mellowest morph could turn violent in a split second. Jack an' his pals are just a bunch of rowdy assholes, so it ain't no shock that trouble seems to follow 'em around. I think what got the whole bar fighting, though, was when one of them trophies that fell off the shelf hit Aaron—that's the Aggron morph we saw when we came in—an' he punched the guy behind him. As for Brandon, well, I've begun to suspect the guy secretly lives for the excitement factor of bar fights!"

"Seems like a rather expensive form of entertainment."

**~oo0oo~**

Shiloh couldn't help a sigh of relief as the forest surrounding the mountain road abruptly opened to reveal the silhouette of the airfield they called "home." Talon Airbase, or "The Tab" was situated atop an artificial plateau that had been cut into the side of the mountain, just like a tab on a file folder. The airfield itself consisted of a pair of barracks, four hangars, two intersecting runways, and a communication tower, plus all the essential equipment for defense. From the Marines' position up the mountain, Shiloh could easily make out the dim silhouette of the cement runways glinting in the light of the barracks.

The deafening roar of a jet plane shook the trees above the Marines' heads as the large, graceful form of a T-7 two-engine transport plane descended onto the runway below. Although an elegant airplane, Shiloh was always filled with dread when they landed at the airbase. T-7s were nearly always used for airdrop missions, and often resupplied at Talon Airbase before carrying its cargo of troops and war equipment across the border to No-Morph's Land, where the humans resided. Much of the plane's cargo would never return to the North American Federation.

"C'mon, guys!" Lieutenant Kamone hissed, leading the group of Marines around along the chain link fence to the far side of the runway.

The Marines, with the exception of Shiloh, walked confidently through the undergrowth, an obvious sign this wasn't the first time they had done this. Eventually, they came to a place at the end of the second runway where the fence was completely torn away. The fence, as Shiloh recalled, had been torn away several months back when one of the fighters had blown an engine on takeoff and careened through the fence. The pilot ejected and escaped with only wounded pride, but the plane was totaled.

The plane had since been replaced by the PLA, but because of funding and material shortages, the fence had yet to be repaired. _Probably don't think the humans will ever make it far enough to pose a serious threat to this base,_ Shiloh thought. _Even though it isn't even two hundred miles from the border._

The Marines quietly crept through the gap in the fence and made a beeline for their barracks. They started off in a walk, but quickly built to a full-out sprint as they cut across the runways and through the grass toward their place of residence. When the quartet came to the tarmac, Lieutenant Kamone changed his direction without warning. Instead of crossing the well-lit tarmac directly toward the main entrance of their barracks, he led the group into the shadows behind an aircraft hangar and slowed to a walk.

The only light they had as they sneaked around to the back entrance of the barracks was the fire on Lieutenant Kamone's tail. The darkness wasn't a problem for Shiloh, since his species had good night vision. However, Fritz the Marshstomp, followed close behind the Charmeleon, most definitely using the lizard's tail to see.

After what felt like an eternity of sneaking along the hollow aluminum building, they finally came to the entrance to the storage closet of their barracks.

"Ol' Colonel White never bothers to check this door," the fiery lizard explained. "I doubt the old geezer even knows it exists!"

In an almost arrogant fashion, the Charmeleon unlocked the door and the Marines walked into a pitch dark room. As Shiloh shut the door behind them, he and his fellow Marines were suddenly blinded as the storeroom lights came on.

As his eyes adjusted to the light, Shiloh realized with sudden dread who the figure standing in the door was.

"Ah, Lieutenant Kamone," an obese blue and white morph in an olive-colored uniform decorated with multiple medals and a silver eagle pin fastened on his cap sneered. "How nice of you and your squad-mates to return! And I see Private Sanderson's with you too. Now, would anyone care to tell me where my Marines have been?"


	3. Corporal Punishment

_**Two weeks earlier...**_

A stout snorlax morph sat at a heavy wooden desk in a small office room, casually eating doughnuts as he leaned back in his chair and peeked through the blinds at his inferiors sparring in the clearing outside his window.

_It won't be long now,_ he thought. _These FNG's have been a particularly troublesome bunch—especially that Benjamin Lanky. He's always out partying at any chance he gets! Then there's that Shiloh Sanderson kid, I don't know what exactly it is about him that I don't like. He doesn't really cause trouble, but..._

The shrill ring of the 1990s-style telephone on his desk snapped the base commander out of his thoughts. He quickly reached for the red receiver, cursing as several stacks of papers fell to the floor in a disheveled mess.

"Talon Airbase," he answered the hotline from High Command.

"Colonel White?" a voice hissed, "I have some important orders for you."

"I'm at your command, Governor."

"We were performing routine background checks on your men and came across a particular marine under your command that we have some... concerns about."

"Concerns?" the snorlax inquired, casually picking up one of the pens that had fallen on the floor and placing it back in the jar on his desk. "Exactly what are these concerns, sir?"

"As you know Colonel, despite the fact we've all but destroyed their technologies, the surviving humans have been and still are a huge thorn in our side, raiding our outposts, stealing our weapons, and more importantly, costing us lives. Furthermore, there is a growing faction among our constituents that are suspicious of the history behind the war and possibly more… sympathetic to those retched humans. We've found more and more pokemorphs—including soldiers in our own armed forces—supporting insurgency, providing supplies, and even fighting alongside the humans. This is starting to become a concern to our military interests, and we've decided to crackdown and eliminate this threat before it gains too much momentum."

The Colonel grunted in agreement.

"Your marine, Private Shiloh Sanderson," the Governor continued. "We have reason to believe he's a human sympathizer that may be a risk to the safety of the base."

"What have you uncovered that gives you those concerns, sir?" the Colonel inquired, leaning back in his chair. "There wasn't anything noted in his dossier when he was transferred to my command."

There was a brief sound of someone typing on a keyboard, before the Governor finally responded. "At the time he was transferred to your command, we were not concerned about his excessive curiosity and his possible sympathies. Circumstances have changed now, and we believe he could be a potential threat and must therefore be eliminated. Don't worry Colonel, we're not holding you responsible or anything like that."

"Thank you, sir."

"Now, where was I..? Oh yes, the information we've got on Private Sanderson. Well, in his dossier, it is mentioned that his biological father was a leafeon pokemorph named Mark Sanderson. The same Mark Sanderson was a Captain in the 2nd Division, and participated in and was among those officially unaccounted for after the Battle of the Mississippi. Aside from the high-profile incident of Major General John Blyght turning rogue, we have done an excellent job of erasing any evidence that may incriminate us for the deaths of tens of thousands of our brave warriors and humiliate the PLA from our history sites. However, we have examined his search records on the internet and found that he appears to have an excessive curiosity about the events that transpired during the war. Although unlikely, there is a chance that if he digs deep enough he could uncover a loose end, and as you know, a cloth can unravel rather quickly once a loose thread is pulled."

"Permission to speak, sir," Colonel White exclaimed, sitting back upright in his chair.

"Granted, so long as you keep it short."

"Hundreds of soldiers in active duty had relatives involved in the Battle of the Mississippi, and none of them have been a problem," he pointed out. "Not to mention he's a marine, and the potential problem would be more related to someone with higher security clearance, like an Intelligence officer."

"You are correct," the Governor conceded. "That's actually only a small part of the reason we're worried about your marine. His step-parents are known by 'friends' to harbor doubts about the nature of the war we fought and routinely express sympathy for humans. Furthermore, Nightseekers recently raided an underground group linked to smuggling aid to humans living in the pens we've created for them, and discovered that his step-parents are regular contributors. Given that these two rogues have been Sanderson's primary influence in his upbringing, we feel that this could potentially pose a threat to our security."

The snorlax morph took the receiver away from his ear and sighed as he took in this avalanche of information, before putting the phone back against his feline ear. "Alright, so what do you want me to do with Private Sanderson."

"In a word, we want you to dispose of him."

"How do you want me to go about doing this?" the Base Commander asked, bringing up the marine-in-question's dossier on his computer and reading through it for ideas.

"That's up to you," the Governor hissed. "After all, your base is officially capable of launching independent operations; but do try to make it seem innocent. The Nightseekers have taken care of his parents, but you can't be too careful when there are scores of nosy reporters looking for a scoop. I'm pretty sure that a nice promotion will be waiting for you when you're done."

"Yes, thank you, sir," he replied, when something on the computer caught his eye. "Can cleaning house wait a little bit?"

"Depends on how long, why?"

"Private Sanderson turns eighteen in two weeks, and if I know his friends, I might have a reason to punish his squad then. His friends are a rather... adventurous bunch, and I believe I'll get the chance to give them a taste of a _real_ adventure to satisfy their appetite, if you catch my drift. But we'll need a transport plane..."

"Very well, I'll make preparations to have my boys send over a T-7 outfitted for deployment in two weeks..."

**~~oo0oo~~**

_**Present time…**_

"Well?" Colonel White demanded, glaring at the stunned marines standing in front of him.

"We were out sparring behind the runway, sir," Lieutenant Kamone lied, for once looking quite unsure of himself as he glanced back at his squad.

"Sparring? You're going to have to come up with a better excuse than that," the snorlax morph boomed, slamming his clenched fist against the wall. "I've been sitting in my office all evening, in perfect view of the runways and not once did I catch a glimpse of any sparring! Did you really think I'd fall for that heap of bullshit?"

"It's the truth, sir," the Charmeleon lieutenant gulped.

The snorlax morph base commander strutted up to the group of marines and glared up at them in rage.

"You guys went out partying, didn't you?" Colonel White accused, in a knowing voice. "Decided to follow tradition and take your friend out drinking on his eighteenth birthday?"

The four marines exchanged worried glances. _This just isn't my day,_ Shiloh thought.

"And it looks like you guys already got more than you bargained for," the Colonel continued, his squinty eyes focusing on Shiloh. "Upset the wrong guy, Private? You look like you went nine rounds. He Focus Punch your face in?"

"Er, actually it was a bottle of vodka, sir." Shiloh replied, instantly regretting it as Lieutenant Kamone stomped on his paw and he realized he'd just gave them away.

"So you _were_ at the bar!" Colonel White roared. "And here I was just going to let you lousy layabouts off with a warning and some extra drills tomorrow. Now by your admission you were off base grounds _against my direct orders!_"

Shiloh looked around at his squad mates, to find them all glaring at him as if this was all his fault. _Blame it all on _me_ will you,_ he thought angrily. _Going out drinking wasn't _my_ idea in the first place!_

"All of you, into my office. NOW." the Base Commander ordered, jerking open the door into the hallway of the barracks.

One-by-one, the marines filed through the door, with Shiloh bringing up the rear. All the way to the adjacent Administration building, he could feel Colonel White's beady eyes burning into the back of his head. If looks could kill, he would have been dead for sure.

After what seemed like an eternity of marching through the whitewashed brick hallways, the squad arrived in front of a heavy wooden door labeled "Base Commander." Colonel White quickly fished out his keys and unlocked the door, before turning to the marines.

"What are you waiting for, an invitation?" he grunted, motioning for the squad to follow him. "Inside. All of you."

Except for when he was transferred to Talon Airbase several months back, Shiloh had never been inside the Base Commander's office. The room looked more-or-less like a stereotypical office: a large wooden desk littered with paperwork and a large computer monitor mounted atop it made up the focal point of the room. Beside it, a mini-fridge sat on the floor within an arm's reach of the Base Commander's chair. Behind the desk were glass windows spanning from wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling, allowing a clear view to all the activities that occurred on the airfield's tarmac and runways. To complete the room, a glass trophy case containing Colonel White's various medals and awards was mounted on the wall to the right of the marines, opposite a row of metal chairs.

_Strategically-placed chairs,_ Shiloh thought, noticing how the chairs were arranged so that anyone sitting in them couldn't help but notice the Colonel's decorations across the room.

There was no time to think about that however, as Colonel White didn't bring them into his office to gloat. The tubby Base Commander motioned for the quartet of marines to sit down in the chairs as he angrily paced the floor in front of them.

"You should be ashamed of yourselves," the Colonel boomed, glaring at the group seated before him. "Of all the marines that have been based here during my 8 year career as Base Commander here, only this group has been this troublesome! I just don't know what I have to do to get it into your incredibly thick sculls that when I give an order, it is to be _obeyed_ to the _letter!_"

Shiloh couldn't help but notice the extra venom the commander put into his glare when he looked at him. _He's holding me as the responsible party for this, _he thought. _What have I done that puts me in the position of the ringleader of this group in his mind when there's so much evidence to the contrary? I mean, nothing says 'escapade mastermind' like getting hung from the flagpole, upside-down, by my belt just two days ago!_

A sharp smack across the face snapped the vaporeon out of his thoughts.

"Already brewing up your next adventure with your pals, Private?" Colonel White asked in a sticky-sweet voice with his face so close that his nose was almost touching Shiloh's and the vaporeon couldn't help but smell the snorlax's muggy breath. "Is what I'm saying not important enough for you to listen?"

"No, sir," Shiloh gulped, shying away from the snorlax's face to gain any possible extra space between the two's uncomfortably close faces.

"What's the matter, Private?" the Colonel asked in mock sympathy, "Can you smell those onion rings I had earlier today? Does my breath sting that sensitive nose of yours? Making you sick to your stomach? Aww, poor baby."

Shiloh released his breath gratefully when the Base Commander stood back upright and resumed pacing in front of them. But unfortunately the snorlax wasn't finished.

"You know what makes me sick, Private?" he asked. "YOU DO! Yes, _you!_ In fact, all of you! You and your sense of adventure. This is the _Pokemorph Liberation Army! _This isn't cub scouts and it definitely isn't a summer camp! We don't do adventure here, we do _discipline!"_

The four marines winced at the force behind their commander's words, but the four stayed silent, awaiting their sentence.

"I _should_ assign you all KP for a month and confine you to your quarters for this," the snorlax said forcefully, glaring at the marines as he paced, before he suddenly got quiet, "but no, I know you guys. You'd just wait it out and go on another late-night adventure as soon as you felt my back was turned. I need something more drastic... something you'll remember..."

The Colonel trailed off and Shiloh followed him with his eyes as he strode over to the window and peered out through the blinds at the hanger where the T-7 was parked. When he turned around, the young Private couldn't miss the gleam in his eyes.

"You guys want adventure?" Colonel White asked. "I'll give you adventure. I'm sure you all saw that transport plane land here earlier this evening? Well, it stopped here to pick up a detachment of marines to airdrop in the Wilderness and escort a fuel convoy en route from the refineries in Alaska. Consider yourselves among those chosen. I'll see you in the briefing room—hungover or not—in full combat attire at oh-four hundred. Dismissed."

**~oo0oo~**

"Nice going, Dogface," Lieutenant Kamone muttered bitterly as Private Polsky closed the door to their room behind them. "Look what you've gotten us into now!" He grumbled as he jumped up on his bunk, yanked off one of his boots and threw it at Shiloh as the private sat down on his bunk across the room.

"Hey! That wasn't my fault!" Shiloh protested covering his head as the second boot flew narrowly missed him and hit the wall with a loud _thump_, causing a chorus of muffled complaints from the next room over.

"Oh really," the charmander morph grumbled in disbelief. "Because it certainly wasn't _me_ who just had to go tell all right in front of the base commander!"

"Well it was no wonder he was suspicious in the first place," he shot back. "'Sparring behind the runway'? Yeah right! Who goes out sparring on their own accord at 11:30 at night _in the dark?_"

"Dogface has a point, you know," Private Polsky mildly pointed out from the bunk beneath the angry Lieutenant. "It was a pretty lousy excuse."

"No one asked your opinion, Private!"

"Lighten up, hot head!" Tarzan called from his bed above Shiloh. "We were overdue for being caught anyway, and we knew Ol' White would be lookin' for us tonight since it was Dogface's big one-eight. We pushed our luck, and we lost, and now we'll get to tag along with the escort party."

"Don't remind me," the Charmander groaned, pulling the fireproof sheets over his head. "I have leave in three weeks, and I didn't exactly want to spend it in hostile territory protecting some damn tankers!"

"C'mon, it isn't all bad," the breloom protested. "I mean, the real deal's way better than doin' drills all day, right? How bad can it be? You know how dumb humans are, they don't think! If we come across any, we'll just take 'em out and be back here doing drills in a fortnight!"

Shiloh listened silently as the marshstomp and charmander in the bunks across the room grunted in grudging agreement. He didn't feel like continuing in the conversation tonight, instead electing to turn over and _try _to get some sleep. This had been a helluva night: dragged to a bar, smashed-up in a bar fight, caught sneaking into the barracks, and then blamed by both his CO's for the whole ordeal. Now that he thought about it, his muzzle still ached from that vodka bottle that tagged him back in the bar.

_Probably will black both my eyes,_ he thought irritably, turning over again in an effort to get to sleep. _Then I'll never hear the end of it from Kamone!_

But tonight, sleep wouldn't come. Tonight, he lay awake for hours, unable to take his mind off the fact that in the morning, he'd be off in a jet on an airdrop and escort mission into the wilderness where God-knows-what was waiting for him.

_Why should I be worried? _He asked himself in an effort to settle his racing mind. _The only thing we might come across would be humans, and they're just inferior beings that are incapable of reason. ...Right?_

He couldn't help but wonder, though, if humans couldn't reason, then how could they have built such expansive empires with such complicated economies and weaponry? The textbooks said that _morphs_ really built and ran those, but then why did they say that the Great War was to overthrow the corruption of the humans? Then there was the fact that the Great War caused billions of casualties between the two factions, and that despite numerous offensives, the Federation had never been able to finish its push across North America. Hell, all of western Europe was declared off-limits to morphs until further notice by the Eurasian Empire, and the rumor in the PLA was that their advance had bogged down somewhere in Central Europe.

Something seriously didn't add up, and as his eyelids grew heavy, somehow Shiloh knew he would soon find out just what was _really_ going on in the world outside the Federation.

**~oo0oo~**

"Shiloh! Dammit, Dogface! Wake up!"

"Ugh, what now?" the young vaporeon groaned as he sat up, groggily rubbing his eyes. "I _just_ got to sleep!"

"It's 3:40!" Tarzan whispered urgently in his ear. "We've got to be at the briefing room in twenty! In full combat attire!"

"Shit!" The young marine exclaimed as he fell out of bed in a panic. From a quick glance around the room, he saw that Lieutenant Kamone and Private Polsky must have already left for the briefing room, their beds already pulled tight. Shaking the last remaining traces of sleep from his body, Shiloh hastily slipped into his camouflage combat fatigues, put on his belt, and yanked on his boots. He quickly pulled the sheets on his bed so tight someone could bounce a penny off of it—just like he was supposed to—before racing after his breloom friend toward the locker room to fetch his body armor.

His paws skidded on the tile floor as he rounded the turn into the locker room. As he entered, however, he was met by Lieutenant Kamone.

"There you guys are!" the charmeleon exclaimed, before checking his watch and pushing past the pair. "You'd better hurry. We're to be in the briefing room in... ten minutes! Polsky's already there!"

"Yes, sir," the two late-risers replied, before rushing into the locker room.

Shiloh quickly made his way to his locker at the end of the row on the far side of the room and fumbled around with his lock. _Seventeen, twenty-six, twenty-one, eleven... There!_ The lock popped open with a muted _click,_ and he yanked it off and tore open his locker. He sighed as he pulled his body armor off the hook in the back and hoisted it over his shoulders, fastening the straps around his body. He grabbed his pack next, and then quickly retrieved his helmet, his solar-powered watch, and his pistol from the top shelf in his locker.

"Five minutes, man," Tarzan called, sliding his own pistol into its holster as he left for the briefing room, leaving Shiloh alone in the room.

"See you there!" the vaporeon replied, examining himself to make sure he had his equipment in order.

He was about to close his locker when a glint caught his eye and made him stop. He opened his locker back up and curiously looked for the source of the light: a small black leather book with gold lettering printed on the cover. Beside it, a small photo of his family before he left for the Marine Corps, two of his most prized possessions. He carefully pulled the two items out from the back of his locker and looked at them in his paw.

"You know what," he said to no one in particular. "I'd better bring you two. Who knows if I'll ever get back here again."

Glancing around to make sure no one had come in after Tarzan left, he carefully slid the book and photo into the inside pocket of his vest. He then shut his locker and replaced the lock, before checking his watch. _Three minutes...just enough time to get there!_


	4. Betrayal in the Sky

**Author's Note:** Hey guys! Sorry for the massive delay since my last update. I could post a sizable explanation about why it's taken me so long, but really that would just be me making excuses. Anyway, I've typed up an extra long chapter of United Offensive this time, and I've also updated the content of previous chapters to better reflect my improved writing skills from this past year. Although no plot changes have been made, I would suggest to my followers to read them through again for a refresher. I would also really appreciate your feedback (positive reviews especially, as they give me more motivation to write), and the review button is at the very bottom of this chapter.

A side note, I also introduce a couple OC's sent to me by some of my reviewers in this chapter. Thanks to their authors for sending them to me, they fit surprisingly well into the plot I have planned for this story!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Pokemon or any aspect of it. I merely am writing a story using characters and a species of creatures which are based off of their creations.

_Endo Sekai_ belongs to Blazing Sceptile.

_Martin Anderson_ belongs to Sgt. Shank.

Thanks again to those authors for sending me their characters for me to use, and a special shout out to my pal Johto Gunner004, who so kindly mentioned me in an author's note in his story _Humanity's Last Hope._

Now without further ado, lets get on with the next chapter of_ Days of Ruin: United Offensive_!

* * *

_**Several hours earlier, unnamed settlement, Utah...**_

_The moon was still high in the sky when a rugged-looking human figure emerged from the shadows of a bombed-out strip mall. With practiced precision, he agilely leaped onto one of the crumbling walls, then vaulted from there onto a broken platform that had once stretched across the top of the building as the roof, all without disturbing so much as a loose stone. He brushed his shoulder-length navy colored hair out of his face, before unclipping his thermal scope from his belt and scanning the horizon._

Nope, nothing, _he thought, adjusting his scope and sweeping the area again to confirm his initial sweep. He was on midnight patrol for the second time in the past week, but he didn't mind. Midnight patrols were like a challenge for him, a challenge to stealthily creep through the dead of night, all the while keeping alert for any signs of an incoming attack from the PLA, feral pokemon, or raiders looking for easy plunder. However, like nearly all nights, nothing was stirring except for the northern winds, bringing a slight chill to the air as it came down from the mountains. He couldn't help but sigh as he clipped his scope back to his belt; sometimes he missed the time when he had crossed blades with the PLA on a daily basis in the Southeast Asian jungles. _

Those were the good old days,_ he thought as a wistful smile crept across his face, _constant battles, rugged terrain, and a paycheck that could have easily paid for all the luxuries he could ever dream of._ Of course, those days had come and gone with the years ago…_

Maybe if I try my aura,_ he pondered, shutting his crimson eyes and allowing his senses to reach out into the world around him. His aura abilities weren't as pronounced as a full-blood lucario pokemorph, but through practice and sheer determination, the battle-hardened warrior had been able to develop them into an effective tool in his arsenal.  
_

_As he began to tighten his mental focus, he began to sense the essence of the life around him, and from there, he began to form mental images of what exactly was going on in his environment. He could see a noctowl calmly riding the breezes in search of prey, and a little farther away, a ninetales was curled up in her warm den, nursing her pups, as the father stealthily hunted in the surrounding area. Behind him, he could make out the forms of his fellow freedom fighters as some of them slept, while others kept watch with their weapons at the ready..._

"_Tired, Endo?" a familiar baritone voice called from behind him, startling the lucario hybrid back into reality._

"_No, Captain," he replied, straightening back up. "I was trying to use my aura to broaden my search radius."_

"_Good man," the middle-aged absol morph replied. His tone was warm, but Endo could sense his hidden anxiety. "Did you detect anything?"_

"_A handful of pokemon, and Mark Saria's team relieving Martin Anderson's at the sentry post; but other than that, nothing." Endo listed to his superior, who grunted in acknowledgment, but said nothing. "Is something bothering you?"_

"_I'm an absol pokemorph, Endo," his commander retorted good-naturedly, faint traces of a smile emerging on his charcoal muzzle, "there's always __something__ bothering me!"_

"_That's not what I meant, Captain."_

"_Hm?"_

"_You've seemed a bit distracted today," Endo pointed out mildly, unclipping his thermal scope from his belt and scanning the horizon again. "It's not at all like you. You have a bad feeling about something?"_

"_You know me too well, my friend," the absol sighed. "You see, I've been having this dream…" The aging morph trailed off, turning his graying muzzle up toward the moon, clearly deep in thought. _

_For a moment, Endo considered rousing his commander, but then thought better of it, not wishing to pressure his commander into revealing something he didn't wish to. Not one to waste idle time, he took out his scope and scanned the horizon a third time, while his commander pondered his apparent dream. Finally, the absol morph patted him on the shoulder._

"_Come on," he called, as he leapt to the ground. "We had better head back. We've finished our patrol, and the sentries will start to get nervous if we're away for too long."_

**~~oo0oo~~**

Shiloh burst through the door of the briefing room just as the final seconds before oh-four hundred hours were ticking away, gasping for breath from his panicked sprint through the Fort Talon corridors.

"I'm glad you could take the time from your no-doubt busy schedule to join us, Private Sanderson," Colonel White sneered, a dark smile creeping across his features. "We were beginning to wonder if you were going to show up!"

_I see he's still blaming _me_ for all of this, _Shiloh sighed inwardly. There was no point in dwelling on his commander's digs at him today—as if there ever was—he couldn't do anything to stop them from coming, and there were more important things to concern himself with today: such as the mission at hand. He saluted politely to the Colonel, then, at the snorlax's gesture, sat down at the free seat in the middle of the room between his squad mates and a small platoon of rugged-looking soldiers.

_I've never seen them before… _Shiloh pondered as he turned his head slightly to examine the unfamiliar troopers. By his count, there were exactly sixteen of them, all dressed in identical jet-black uniforms with an ominous crimson and black insignia depicting a chandelure stitched to the sleeve of their uniforms. A tall and sturdily-built bayleef, a swampert with a badly torn head fin, a honchkrow with ragged wing feathers, and a serious looking emolga occupied the row of chairs immediately to Shiloh's left. Among those further down the way sat an ampharos, a machamp, a sneasel, and a zorua morph to name a few; many of them marked with scars from missions past, and each and every one of them displayed the air of a seasoned veteran. Simply put, none of these guys were strangers to the battlefield.

Another thing Shiloh duly noted as he examined the black uniformed soldiers was the species of the morphs in the unit: many of them were either grass or electric types—both of which were difficult for him to match up against. Lucky for him they were all on the same side!

Shiloh suddenly felt someone's gaze upon him, and looked up to see the unnerving sight of all sixteen of the black-clad warriors looking at him with ice-cold, penetrating gazes. He must have been staring at them without realizing it, and they had obviously noticed. He abruptly looked away toward the front of the room, feeling his face grow hot in embarrassment as his friends snickered at him in the seats to his right. Lieutenant Kamone opened his mouth for a jibe, when Colonel White loudly cleared his throat.

"Listen up, people! Let's get this briefing started!" the Colonel called the group to order, looking up at the clock behind him. At his motion, an assistant walked over to the front of the room and pulled open a large pulldown map of the region. "As you are all aware, there was once a pipeline that ran from the rich oil fields of the north down to the main network that sprawled across the continent. This network was effectively the lifeline of the military machine of this continent's armies, which was why we severed it almost a decade ago. After years of relying on our allies overseas for most of our oil supplies and dealing with rampant piracy in the oceans, the Governor believes it is time to reestablish a supply line to and from the oil-rich fields in the northeast region of this continent."

Colonel White paused as general murmurs of agreement passed through the group in front of him. When the noise died down, the snorlax continued. "We've been transporting personnel and materials to the Alaska Region for several weeks now, and our men are finally ready to begin sending convoys of oil tankers down the roads toward our front lines down here. To that end, there's one shall we say 'small' problem: the large expanse of Forbidden Lands between them and us. _This_ is where you come in."

The Commander paused, tracing a route on the map between Alaska and Fort Talon with a red dry erase pen. "The first tanker convoy left the Alaskan Refineries several days ago, but they've suffered several attacks from guerilla forces in the Forbidden Lands which have crippled the convoy's escort team, although the tankers themselves remain undamaged. Your mission is to fly out of Fort Talon in that T-7 on the tarmac, airdrop into the Washington Region and rendezvous with the tanker convoy, bringing them much-needed supplies and personnel. From there, you will continue to escort the convoy through the Forbidden Lands and bring them safely to Fort Talon. Understood?"

"Understood." The group replied in a single collective voice.

"Good," the Base Commander boomed, scratching his robust stomach absent-mindedly. "Continuing on, the convoy consists of twenty large tank trucks, each carrying ten-thousand gallons of fuel. The escort force contains a pawful of light armor units and Humvees which will prove helpful should you run into any guerillas. Remember, what you're protecting is extremely valuable cargo, and you will have no immediate backup available. You must rely on what you carry with you to see you through your journey."

"Permission to speak, sir?" a sturdily-built ampharos sitting in the front of the black-clad platoon requested.

"Granted."

"What will our armament be for this mission, sir?"

"Your team's armament will consist of whatever weapons you choose from the Fort Talon Armory," the snorlax replied. "You're the field commander of this operation and a very experienced soldier Captain Shepherd, so I'll leave all the decisions as to armament and squad pairings up to you. I understand you're not exactly familiar with my boys who will be 'tagging along' with you, but I assure you I wouldn't have assigned them to this task if I didn't feel they could handle it."

_That's a laugh! _Shiloh thought bitterly. _You're just sending us on this so you can get us out of your fur for a few weeks!_

"About your squad, sir…"

"Yes?"

"I have nothing against having a few extra paws on this mission, but with all respect to you and your men, we as a unit have been working together for years and we're very close-knit. I'm slightly concerned that adding a pawful of men who have no prior combat experience—much less experience with Special Forces—could be detrimental to our fighting ability."

"I understand your concerns Captain, but this isn't exactly a Special Forces operation like you are used to—rather if we didn't have personnel shortages, this would have been assigned solely to my Marines. I knew that we were receiving help from Central Command for this mission, but I honestly never expected them to send the elites for this. Nonetheless, your men are trained to be able to handle any situation, no matter how difficult, so I expect that a few FNG's on a mission such as this won't pose too much of a problem. Besides, it isn't like these guys are completely without experience; they have taken shifts at the border checkpoints before."

"Very well, sir, I'll have to trust your judgment," the ampharos Captain replied, seeming appeased for the time being. "What will your squad's armament be, so we know how to prepare?"

"Well, as you're going to be the field commander for this operation, that's really up to you," Colonel White shrugged. "You could give them general-purpose assault rifles if you would like, this squad is very flexible, but in training exercises they tend to assume certain roles. Lieutenant Kamone, he's the Charmeleon, generally acts as the designated marksman. Sergeant Lanky…"

"I respectfully asked to be called 'Tarzan', sir," the aforementioned breloom interjected, before clamping his red paw over his mouth in realization of what he had just done. He had interrupted the Base Commander, an offense that usually ended in disciplinary action.

Shiloh's breath caught in his throat, they were in enough of a hole as it was, _without_ interrupting their CO! The very air felt as if it had been sucked from the room, as everyone tensely waited for the snorlax's response.

"Sorry," the Colonel finally grunted with a smile that appeared rather forced. "'Tarzan', as he's called, usually carries a shoulder-mounted weapon in combat simulations. I don't think you'll be running into any enemy armor or aircraft out there, but it may be helpful to have him carry an RPG. Fritz is a combat engineer and Private Sanderson…"

The Base Commander paused and Shiloh held his breath in anticipation of what he was going to say. So far his commander had recommended the positions that his squad was used to performing, but since he was still being held responsible for what happened the night before, there was the looming threat that the snorlax would intentionally recommend a job he _didn't_ like, and it was going to be a long few weeks as it already was.

"Well," the tubby Base Commander continued thoughtfully, "Sanderson's young and has a reputation for being a bit of a troublemaker around here, so you'll want to keep an eye on him. He's not the most athletic marine here, and he's only an average shot—provided he can figure out how to turn off the safety on his gun, that is!"

_Liar! I'm one of, if not the best shot on this base and you'd see it if you ever bothered to check the assessment scores for yourself instead of listening to that two-faced lizard Kamone. Oh wait, I forgot! You're too busy butt-kissing Central Command and eating doughnuts from your minifridge! And I already told you, someone rigged the safety on that rifle so that no matter what position you turned it to, it wouldn't work!_

"That said," the Colonel continued, ignoring the sour look on the vaporeon's face, "just give him an assault rifle, I doubt he could figure out how to use anything bigger than that anyway."

"It sounds like you know what your men are best suited for," the Special Forces Captain observed. "I'll give them armaments to match their strengths, sir."

"Very well, you're all dismissed. I now leave this mission in your capable paws, Captain," the snorlax boomed, motioning to his assembled soldiers that they were free to leave. "My men will show you where the Armory is so you can select your weapons."

With that, the black uniformed troopers stood up and began filing out of the room and into the hallway, already organizing themselves into their familiar squads as the inexperienced soldiers from Fort Talon collected themselves and moved to follow. Shiloh took his position behind Tarzan at the back of the line as the four marines marched single-file out of the room. As he stepped into the hallway, he was greeted by the sight of the black-clad troopers lined up two-by-two, waiting patiently to be led to the Armory to select their weapons.

"Oh, one last thing!" Colonel White called, poking his head out from the briefing room door. "I'd like a word with my marines back inside real quick."

"Yes, sir," Lieutenant Kamone replied, as the four marines turned around to follow the Base Commander back into the briefing room.

"Wait a second!" the snorlax interrupted, raising a paw up to stop them. "I told you to show Captain Shepherd's team the Armory, didn't I?"

"Yes you did, sir." His charmeleon Lieutenant confirmed.

"Dammit," Colonal White sighed, as he turned back to look at the clock inside the briefing room, which now read five twenty-five. "I've already kept you nearly thirty minutes longer than I planned."

"It's not too much of a problem, Colonel," Captain Shepherd shrugged. "We were scheduled to deploy at oh-six hundred, and we can get that bird loaded up to go in twenty if we have to."

"Perhaps, but I'd still prefer to give you enough time to get things right," the snorlax fretted, rubbing his forhead with his paw. "Alright, here's what we'll do," he finally decided, looking over Shepherd's men and his own before finally fixing his gaze upon Shiloh. "Sanderson, you lead Shepherd and his men to the Armory and help them load the equipment. I'll just have a quick word with your colleagues before you all deploy, and I'm sure they can pass on the message to you. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!" the four marines replied in unison.

"Alright, then get on with it!" the snorlax snapped, his voice echoing through the cement halls.

Without wasting a second, Lieutenant Kamone led two of his squad mates back into the briefing room with Colonel White, while Shiloh scanned the crowd of black-op troopers in search of their commander. Rather unsurprisingly, he found the distinctive yellow fur of Captain Shepherd at the front of the line, the ampharos watching the vaporeon with expectant eyes. Suddenly, Shiloh found himself at a loss for words as he met the battle-hardened ampharos's gaze.

_C'mon Shiloh, think of something! But what the hell do I say to a morph who has me outclassed in both rank and experience?_

"Um, if you and your men will follow me, I'll lead you to the armory, sir." Shiloh finally stammered, his voice coming out more as a squeak.

"Very well, Private," Shepherd replied with a curt nod. "Lead on."

"Right, uh, the Armory is this way," Shiloh said, motioning for Shepherd and his men to follow as he briskly led them down the cement halls towards a more isolated sector of the building between the barracks and the hangars outside.

_C'mon Shiloh, get a grip of yourself! You're going to be working with these morphs for the next few weeks; you want to give them a good impression after His Highness made you his doormat in the briefing! Yeah, I'll show them that I'm not some helpless slack-off like Colonel White made me out to be!_

"Hey vaporeon?" a voice called from behind him, snapping Shiloh out of his reprieve. "Is this it?"

Shiloh looked back toward the source of the voice to find Shepherd standing several feet behind him, next to a pair of heavy double doors with the label _'Danger: Armory'_ emblazoned upon them in dark red letters.

"Um, yes, that's it, sir," Shiloh confirmed, feeling his face redden. He had been so distracted by his own thoughts that he had nearly led them all right past it!

"Then let's quit wasting time standing around here and start getting weapons!" the ampharos replied, and several grunts of agreement came from the crowd of soldiers behind him. "I take it you have the access code so we can get in?"

"I have one, yes," Shiloh grinned, feeling a semblance of authority as he strode up to the door and punched in a series of numbers on the keypad on the handle.

As he punched in the sixth digit and turned the handle, the door opened with a metallic squeaking sound, revealing the cache of weapons in the room they concealed. Shiloh stood back and held the door as the soldiers behind him began filing into the room.

"Hey kid, a word of advice," the intimidating swampert with the shredded head-fin coughed, stopping to examine the vaporeon. "Keep your head at all times. Spacing out like that in hostile territory will only get you killed. You got that?"

"Yes, sir," Shiloh gulped, craning his head to look up at the much larger morph. The swampert was at least four inches taller than him, and probably a good thirty pounds heavier—all of it in muscle.

"Good," the swampert grunted, "I don't want to be the one scraping your guts up off the ground if you get shot-up."

Without waiting for a reply, the swampert continued into the armory without waiting for a response from the rookie Marine.

"That's good," Shiloh muttered to himself, making a note to ask the older soldier about his shredded head fin, "because I don't want to be _getting_ shot-up, either!"

As the last few members of the black uniformed unit joined their colleagues inside the armory, Shiloh kicked down the doorstop to hold the door open and followed them inside. There he was met with the sight of the black-ops soldiers going through the weaponry, trying them out in a manner that in many ways could be likened to women shopping in a clothing store. They took them off the rack, examined them in their paws, tried them on over their shoulders, modeled them in front of their comrades, compared magazine and bullet sizes, and most importantly, checked to make sure their fingers fit in the trigger mechanism.

Despite how comical the soldiers appeared as they rummaged through the armory, Shiloh knew just how important it was to have a gun that was both functional and comfortable enough to carry. After all, there was no point in carrying a gun that you couldn't fire because your fingers were too big or too small to effectively operate the trigger—a problem which came about from having the wide variety of morphs of different shapes and sizes. In addition, they would be carrying whichever gun they chose for several weeks, and it would be their first line of defense if any humans dared to show their ugly mugs while they were crossing the Forbidden Lands. That wasn't to say they weren't capable of dispatching humans using just their abilities as pokemorphs, but guns saved precious time and energy, and there was always the possibility—however unlikely—of encountering organized human forces with firearms of their own.

Stepping around the various morphs clamoring about inside the already crowded armory, Shiloh made his way to where Captain Shepherd stood selecting a secondary weapon.

"Excuse me, sir," Shiloh coughed in an effort to get the ampharos's attention.

"Hold on for one second, Private," the electric-type replied, not turning his head from the sidearms on the shelf in front of him. After a moment of indecision, the ampharos finally pulled a Colt Python from the shelf, gave it a quick examination, and then slid it into the holster on his belt. "Alright, what was it you wanted, kid?"

"I was wondering which weapon you would like me to carry for this operation, sir," Shiloh inquired, casually gesturing to the guns of various shapes and sizes strewn about on the many different racks scattered throughout the armory. "I mean, I know Colonel White recommended I take an assault rifle, but I was wondering if you had a specific gun in mind, sir."

"Well, stick to the general weapon class that your commander recommended," Captain Shepherd said thoughtfully, "but I'll leave the decision of exactly which gun you choose completely up to you," the ampharos shrugged. "That is, if you can handle it."

"Yes, thank you, sir!" Shiloh replied, faint traces of enthusiasm creeping into his voice. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all! At least this commander was flexible enough to let him choose the weapon he wished to carry.

"Oh, and while you're selecting a weapon," the ampharos continued, "why don't you pick out a pawful of guns for your comrades to choose from, put them in a crate, and take them out to the plane? We've got to be ready to leave in less than fifteen minutes, and with loading the plane, I doubt that your friends will have time to come all the way back here to pick weapons for themselves before we leave."

"Yes sir," Shiloh nodded, "just to confirm, you want me to take a few extra guns so they have a selection to choose from?"

"I believe that's what I said, kid. Your commander said you were a troublemaker, are you hard of hearing too?"

"No sir, I just wanted to make sure I understood-"

"Well I would suggest you pay better attention next time, Private," the Captain snapped, irritation written all over his facial features. "If there's one thing I hate, its incompetence."

Shiloh was rather taken aback by the ampharos's sudden change in mood, things had just gone from looking up to back on the commander's blacklist in a matter of seconds; and he wasn't even doing anything wrong! This was turning out to be one of those days where he just couldn't win…

"Now beat it, soldier, I have more pressing matters to attend to!" Captain Shepherd finished angrily, before turning tail and stalking across the room to where his men were busy loading a crate with ammo and supplies.

Shiloh couldn't stop the icy feeling of dread crawling up his spine from the ampharos's words. It felt as if he was alone on this mission. His squad mates were angry with him for getting them in trouble, his commander made him sound like a ditz during the briefing, and now the commander of the unit that he was accompanying for this escort mission was damned sure he was as incompetent as he had been led to believe. If this was a sign of how the mission was going to go later on, they may as well have shot him on the spot.

_Snap out of it!_ Shiloh shook his head violently in an effort to clear his thoughts, but the sudden action accomplished little but make him slightly dizzy. _Your CO told you to pick a weapon for yourself and your friends. This mission's going to be what you make it. Stay positive! It's just been a rough few hours; this doesn't mean things won't work out!_

Pushing his conflicting emotions to the back of his mind, he then turned to the nearest assault rifle shelf and began to look through it. Various guns of the said weapons class rested on the shelves, including M4 Carbines, HK416's, and several models of pokemorph-manufactured weapons. But to his dismay, the top two shelves had all but been picked clean by the other soldiers. Although there were plenty more guns to choose from, generally the best weapons were towards the top of the shelf—close to eye-level. He would have to settle for one of the guns on one of the lower shelves.

Crouching down to look at the lower racks, he casually ran his paw across the numerous weapons as he looked them over in hopes of finding a pleasant surprise. He was just about to give up his search for gold and take an HK416 off the rack, when one particular surprise on the very bottom rack caught his eye: a desert camouflaged SCAR-H with a flip-up ACOG scope already attached. The FN SCAR was a somewhat more uncommon human weapon used in the war, specifically because they were one of the larger assault rifles used by the US Military and not as maneuverable for urban combat seen during the Great War as smaller assault rifles such as HK416's. But out in difficult terrain, a SCAR's range and reliability was where it made its name. SCAR's, specifically the Heavy model, had an effective range that could put it in the 'marksman rifle' class, and it was both more accurate and resistant to stoppages than its indirect predecessor, the M4 Carbine.

"Who left a gun like you on the bottom shelf?" Shiloh pondered out loud as he took the weapon off the shelf and examined it in greater detail. Judging by the moderately gun's sized grip and relatively narrow trigger guard; it had clearly been originally designed for a human soldier's paw as opposed to a morph's. Because pokemorphs came in all sorts of shapes and sizes, the guns they designed had to accommodate a broader spectrum of paw sizes. Pokemorphs such as a tyrannitar or snorlax sure wouldn't be able to cram their hulking paws into a grip like this one, and small morphs would have the opposite problem of the grip being too large for them to carry the gun easily.

Shiloh looked up toward where the other soldiers were loading supplies into crates and beginning to take them from the armory to the plane. None of them would be able to comfortably carry a weapon with a grip like this, but perhaps he could. He wasn't a massive morph by any means, neither was he among the vertically challenged. In fact, from what he had seen of the unfortunate humans they kept in the zoo, he was actually comparable in size to them, roughly the height of an adult human male. Perhaps he would be able to carry the gun.

He carefully took the SCAR's grip in his right paw. The grip was slightly different than that of the morph-built assault rifles he was used to using, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Slightly encouraged, he slipped his index finger inside the guard and rested it on the trigger. He had been slightly concerned that the webbing between his digits would pose a problem, but this quickly proved that this was not the case. The gun, although somewhat different than he was used to, fit quite nicely in his paws.

Having decided upon his primary weapon, Shiloh quickly grabbed a pawful of twenty-round box magazines filled with 7.62x51mm NATO rounds and slipped them into their appropriate pouches on his vest. It was better that he carry them on his person than put them in the box with his friends weapons, it would save him the trouble of retrieving the ammo later anyway at the slight inconvenience of being a few pounds heavier for a more couple hours. Counting the rounds in his gun, he was carrying exactly one hundred and twenty rounds, or about ten pounds of ammo. Add that to the twenty-five pound vest he was wearing and the eight pound gun slung across his back, and he was beginning to feel the weight of the equipment on his shoulders; and he hadn't even put on his backpack with his parachute yet—that was in the plane.

That settled Shiloh looked up at the clock. It read fifteen minutes to six, just enough time to get his friends weapons and load them in a crate to take to the plane. Realizing time was of the essence, he went through the aisles to where his squad mates kept their preferred weapons. Mercifully after all the things that had gone wrong today, Shiloh found their weapons untouched by the other troops and in the exact places they had last left them. That made things considerably easier for him to get the weapons his squad mates liked: a PMR (Pokemorph Marksman Rifle) with an ACOG/Thermal scope for Lieutenant Kamone, an RPG-7 morph-customized rocket launcher and a submachine gun for Tarzan, and a PAR-4 plus a couple packs of C-4 for Polsky.

Shiloh quickly loaded the said weapons into a medium-sized bullet-proof crate, and then dragged it over to where the extra ammunition was kept. He quickly collected enough ammo to fully stock his squad's weapons and pockets, and tossed them into the crate, then dragged the box a little further down the rack to where the grenades were kept. He grabbed a couple frags and a flashbang for himself and clipped them to his belt, then grabbed the same for his squad. He looked up in hopes to find another trooper to help him carry the crate of weapons to the plane, but to his dismay, the armory was now vacant.

Shiloh cursed in frustration at the lack of help he was getting from his supposed partners today, looking up at the clock as he did so. The clock now read just over five until the hour, which didn't leave him much time to carry the crate all the way to the tarmac—as if he could anyway, the crate's very shape made it difficult to carry to begin with and to top it off, it was now filled full of guns and ammo for three other people! He quickly searched around for a cart, but both of them were missing. The other soldiers had probably taken them to carry the other ammunition crates they were filling, leaving him to carry his whole team's equipment single-handedly.

"So much for 'all for one,'" Shiloh grunted as he dragged the crate with him as he made his way towards the tarmac. He could already picture Colonel White chewing him out for scuffing the finish on the floor, but he didn't care. He wouldn't see the tubby snorlax for a couple weeks at the earliest anyway. Shiloh dragged the crate over the raised portion of the doorway which led outside into the brisk morning air. "Because it has definitely been nothing except one for all today!"

**~oo0oo~**

After much effort, Shiloh managed to drag the crate across the tarmac and to the place where the T-7 sat with its engines at idle, clouds of steam rushing from the exhaust ports of the plane's jets. Careful to avoid the jet wash, he pulled the crate along behind him toward the open tail hatch, where a cross ampharos stood waiting with his arms folded.

"You're three minutes late," the Captain said flatly.

"Sorry, sir," Shiloh muttered begrudgingly, biting back the urge to snap back with a stinging retort about being left to carry a bulky hundred pound crate on his own.

"Nevermind!" the ampharos snapped in response. "There's a nasty storm brewing near our flight path through Utah, and we don't want to have to detour. Get the crate into the cargo bay; then tell your pals in the personnel section that their weapons have arrived."

"Yes, sir."

Captain Shepherd turned to head up the ramp. "We're leaving immediately," he said. "For your comrades' sake, I hope you didn't forget anything!"

"That makes two of us, sir," Shiloh replied with a slight grin, despite his less-than stellar mood.

Following the mission commander's lead, he dragged the crate up the metal ramp, into the dimly-lit interior of the plane. Captain Shepherd radioed to the pilots that they were ready to leave, before heading to the personnel compartment, leaving Shiloh alone in the cargo bay. A moment later the large hatch which made up the tail section of the plane shuddered, then closed and locked itself, making the already dark cargo bay even darker. Lucky for Shiloh that vaporeons had good night vision.

But the darkness didn't last long, as florescent bulbs lining the ceiling flickered to life, restoring light to the cargo bay and causing Shiloh to squint in the sudden brightness. He dragged the crate the last few meters to the front wall of the compartment and strapped it down, before he too opened the door to the personnel section of the plane and went inside, closing the door behind him. His fellow troopers were seated on the bench seats running parallel to the fuselage, their backpacks containing their rations and parachutes sitting atop the rack above their heads and all of them, with the exception of the squad from Fort Talon, sat with their weapons across their laps. At the front of the room, Shiloh could see the two pilots through the open cockpit door as they systematically went through their pre-flight checklist. They too, Shiloh noticed, were wearing chandelure patches on the sleeves of their uniforms, which struck him as rather odd as pilots and foot soldiers rarely wore identical markings. _Must be a Special Forces thing…_

"I trust you got our weapons like Captain Shepherd assured us you would?" Lieutenant Kanone asked, his voice cutting through the hushed chatter drifting amongst the soldiers filling the seats inside the room.

"Yes I did," Shiloh answered, as he quickly took a seat on the bench at the front of the room, Polsky to his left and the cockpit wall to his right. "They're in the crate right by the door as you go out."

No sooner had he sat down and fastened his harness then the mighty jet engines of the T-7 came to life and the plane lurched forward, taxiing to the runway.

"I hope you at least got us some decent weapons, Dogface," the fiery lizard snorted as the plane bounced along, smoke coming out of his nostrils as he did so. "If you didn't, then I swear the first shot I fire is going…"

Shiloh tuned the irritating lizard out and instead turned his head to catch a fleeting glance of the facility that had effectively been his home for the past couple years, burning the image of the whitewashed barracks and grass-covered hillside into his mind. As he looked out the narrow window, it didn't take him long to realize that his squad mates—including his reptilian commander—had stopped talking and were doing the same thing. They wouldn't be seeing this place again for a long time, so it was best to savor it while they could.

At last, the plane had reached the east side of the runway and turned around for a westward-facing takeoff, hiding the base facilities from the view of the young marines. The hum of the engines quickly intensified until they became a resounding roar, a sound which was rapidly followed by the sensation of rapidly increasing speed. Shiloh felt himself slide sideways in his seat, toward the back of the plane, with only the harness to hold him in place. The nose of the plane pitched high into the air as the pilots pulled back on their flight sticks, and the rest of the aircraft and its cargo followed soon thereafter. Shiloh looked out the window behind him at the world beneath him as it steadily grew smaller, until at last, Fort Talon was naught but a speck on the horizon.

As the rest of the soldiers settled in for the several-hour flight ahead, Shiloh rapidly became aware of just how exhausted he was. Not counting the hour or so of sleep he had gotten before the briefing, he had been up for nearly twenty-four hours. His ballistic vest felt surprisingly heavier than usual today, and his aching muzzle from the bottle of alcohol that hit him during the barfight the night before only added his exhaustion, but at least it didn't feel as if his nose was broken anymore. As he listened to the steady whine of the engines as the T-7 soared through the sky, Shiloh found his eyelids grow heavy, and at last, he fell fast asleep…

**~oo0oo~**

Shiloh woke with a start when his head suddenly smacked roughly against the wall to his right. He wasn't sure how long he had been sleeping, but he was certainly awake now! He looked around the cabin of the aircraft, but to his dismay, his comrades were nowhere to be found and the aircraft was filled with an unnatural darkness despite the fact it was surely daytime. The aircraft pitched violently, and Shiloh turned his head to look out the window to see just what exactly was going on. Had they been hit and everyone bailed without him? That didn't appear to be the case, but the aircraft was undoubtedly going through very dense storm clouds, which explained both the darkness and the turbulence. That still didn't explain where everyone had disappeared to, though.

Shiloh unfastened his harness and reached for his backpack. Since everyone else and their equipment was missing, it could only be assumed that they had gone to the cargo bay and were either preparing to or already had jumped. The aircraft jolted again, this time throwing Shiloh off-balance and he fell to the floor with an undignified sounding crash, catching the attention of both pilots.

"What are you still doing here?" the one on the left, a male pidgeotto morph, exclaimed in surprise.

Shiloh opened his mouth to reply, but realized he didn't entirely know what to say.

"Don't just stand there slack-jawed!" the co-pilot, a female altaria, shrieked as she yanked off her headset. "Your team mates are in the cargo bay getting ready to jump! We're nearly at the drop zone!"

"Okay! I'm going!" Shiloh exclaimed as he leapt to his feet. "Thanks for telling me!"

He quickly hoisted his parachute-laden backpack over his shoulders and tightened the straps as he sprinted through the crew cabin towards the cargo bay. He yanked open the door to the cargo bay and was promptly greeted with a blast of frigid air from the open tail hatch. However, as he stepped into the room, something large and solid smacked him in the side of the head, knocking him roughly to the floor in a daze. But he only stayed down a split second, before jumping up and glaring at what hit him: it was Lieutenant Kamone.

"What the hell, man?" Shiloh demanded angrily, rapidly advancing on the charmeleon who strangely remained standing in place, a dark expression on his face.

Just as Shiloh was reaching for the lizard's shirt, another person grabbed the vaporeon from behind and slammed him into the cargo bay wall, _hard_, before throwing him to the ground. This time, it was the swampert with the torn head fin who had attacked him.

"Geez, guys! What the hell is wrong with you?" Shiloh exclaimed, looking around the room only to discover that he was surrounded on all sides, everyone glaring at him with unmasked hatred. Never before had he encountered a situation like this. It was almost as if they were going to attack _him,_ but why? What had he done to merit being attacked like this? "Um guys?" Shiloh stammered nervously, "What's going on?"

"End of the line, you treacherous dog," Lieutenant Kamone spat.

"I always _knew_ he was trouble!" Private Polsky added in his distinct nasal-sounding voice as he and several other soldiers slowly advanced on the vaporeon with the same menacing glare.

"Guys," Shiloh stammered, desperately trying to process what exactly was unfolding before him. "If this is a joke, I'm not finding it very funny…"

"No joke, kid," Captain Shepherd said, absolutely no emotion in his voice as he stood between Shiloh and the open tail hatch, watching the unfolding events with a passive look on his face. "I'm sorry, but this is where it ends."

"Ends?" Shiloh choked on his words as the soldiers continued to advance on him, several of them drawing their knives as they did so. "Why? What have I done?"

There was no reply. His would-be assassins were now just ten steps away. Time felt nearly as if it had completely stopped as Shiloh was filled with an overwhelming sense of dread as he began to comprehend what was going on.

_Oh God, someone tell me this isn't happening!_

Nine steps…

_Why are my friends doing this?_

Eight steps…

_We're all Marines! We're all on the same side…aren't we?_

Seven steps…

_I've never given them anything short of my best effort!_

Six steps…

_What have I done to make them hate me enough to murder me in cold blood?_

Five steps…

_They're close now; it will all be over soon…_

Four steps…

_NO! Don't give up, Shiloh! Your parents didn't raise you to be a quitter! You have to escape!_

Three steps…

…_But how? It's hopeless! I'm completely surrounded… Wait, that's it!_

Two steps… Shiloh's friends-turned-enemies paused, no doubt preparing to lunge at him, to pin him to the ground and impale him with their knives until no trace of life was left in him—a horrible way to go, now that he thought about it. He could hear blood roaring in his ears and the adrenaline coursing through his body made him hyper-alert and ready to fight. _The cornered ratatta will bite the meowth, as they say…_ They would never see this one coming!

On a silent count of three, the soldiers dove at the vaporeon, but to their surprise, their intended victim abruptly vanished in an explosion of boiling hot steam a mere fraction of a second before they reached him. Shiloh landed from his Scald-assisted jump several feet away from the tangled mass of assailants, and immediately turned to run. _Heh, that actually worked!_ He smiled at his rather ingenious use of his move pool, before someone reached out from behind and yanked him down hard by his tail.

Shiloh looked down, or rather behind him; somehow the swampert with the shredded head fin had managed to react to his sudden leap and had pulled him down by the tail. But the swampert was still partially ensnared by the pile of morphs on his back, and he didn't have a good grip on the vaporeon's tail. Shiloh could hear the pawsteps of the other troopers rapidly approaching and quickly wrenched the fin of his tail free from the swampert's grasp. He scampered away just in time to avoid a pair of diving tackles from both a zorua and a luxio, then ducked under a third tackle from a bayleef, rolling the grass type cleanly off his back without losing too much of his forward momentum.

Now there was only daylight in front of him. He just had to dive out of the open tail hatch, and he was home free—provided the other soldiers didn't jump out after him. To that end, the thick gray clouds outside would likely work to his favor—they surely wouldn't follow him through a storm just to settle a grudge! Shiloh was now only several steps from the open hatch to the thick gray clouds outside and freedom.

He crouched down for a running dive, when… _THWACK! _The stock of someone's gun caught him square in the forehead, stopping all of his forward momentum and knocking him to the floor on his back, stunned. Despite his hazy vision, he could make out the form of Lieutenant Kamone standing over him with his rifle in paw.

"Consider _that_ your dishonorable discharge, Dogface!" the lizard spat hatefully, kicking Shiloh in the ribcage, winding the vaporeon.

Through all the tears, Shiloh could make out a shadowy second figure standing over him which bore a slight resemblance to Kamone and made him wonder if he was seeing double. This was soon disproved as the figure bent down and clasped his paw around Shiloh's throat; the sudden static coming into contact with Shiloh's fur clearly identified the mystery morph as an electric-type of some sort. The morph hoisted the stunned and now at least partially paralyzed vaporeon off the ground and brought him up to look him in the face. It was at that moment Shiloh's vision cleared enough for him to look into the eyes of the morph who was throttling him. It was Captain Shepherd.

"I have to give you credit, kid," the ampharos smiled coldly as he slowly began to tighten his grip on the helpless vaporeon's neck. "You are officially the unluckiest morph I've ever met. You had the chance to escape, but oh, so close!"

"Why…are you… doing this to me?" Shiloh wheezed, fighting for the air his body so desperately cried for.

Captain Shepherd leaned his head close to the vaporeon's ear. "Simple," he whispered in an eerily soft voice. "We know all about you."

"Huh?"

"We know that you were raised up to sympathize with those retched humans," the ampharos continued. "We know you and your family used to supplies to them."

"Big deal," Shiloh coughed; the edges of his vision were now beginning to gray. "It was just… food and medicine. You could argue…that I was just…extending their…lives…so they could…entertain morphs… like you… longer…"

"Nonetheless," Shepherd smiled coldly, "we can't have degenerate beings such as you around. It's a threat to national security, and frankly, we can't have you corrupting the pure and mighty blood of we superior pokemorphs."

The ampharos loosened his grip, allowing Shiloh's pleading lungs to draw a ragged breath of air. The vaporeon's vision rapidly cleared, but what he saw next made his blood run cold. Shepherd reached down with his free paw, drew his magnum pistol and pointed it at the water-type's chest. At this close of range, there was no chance that Shiloh's vest would be able to stop a .357—it would pass through one side for certain, then likely ricochet off the back of his vest and around inside his body.

_BANG!_ He felt an incredible pain in his chest and it suddenly felt as if he couldn't breathe. He looked down; blood was now gushing from a wound in his chest and spilling down the front of his uniform. He looked back up into Captain Shepherd's steely gaze.

"Goodbye," the ampharos said coldly, and gave the vaporeon a rough shove backwards.

The next thing Shiloh knew, he was plummeting like a ragdoll through the clouds, watching the dark form of the T-7 speeding away…


End file.
